Vincent Sings the Blues

 

I'm Nederlander, from the South I'm born

Down Brabant way, my rough Dutch tongue

Betrays my place and home. Oh, I'm torn

 

Apart by life and love, but memory still is young

And my art strong. I paint and draw each day,

But often enough on the junk pile they're flung.

 

Father was a preacher, so in the fields I'd play;

An austere parson's son not understanding faith

plied the dealer's trade from his uncle's ancient dray.

 

Art is consolation - its mercy a gentle wraith -

So I signed my canvas “Vincent”:- of the people;

A creator of watercolours in which to bathe.

 

Nature grew then in light and hue, as an eagle

Soars over Arles like a warder on patrol.

Or wretched Gauguin when giving me the needle.

 

Now I'm crazy say the doctors, my sanity's on parole

And young Theo my sturdy saviour, my guide

When this desolate asylum tries to remake my soul.

 

The doctors look out for old van Gogh, they hide

The knives when I'm about (Gauguin did the deed)

But I would not drown again on yet another rising tide.

 

So I took my gun to a wheat field, my easel to show good form,

Administered a singular tincture to clarify the mind,

At which my burden left me, freedom my reward.

 

Chris Hubbard

2020